The After Effects
by Art Is The Weapon
Summary: "He thought once he'd killed those pesky micro organisms, that was it. So long plague, hello life. He'd never thought of the after effects." One shot of Tony's feelings post-SWAK.


_**The (Thank-God-I-Got-Sick-So-Had-Cause-For-Another-Post-SWAK-Fic) Author's Note: **_So here's the story behind this one. A couple of months ago, I started feeling sick. And than, I got REALLY ill. I mean, it was bad. I never, ever get sick. But being the brave soul I am (ha ha not) I only missed one day worth of school to the damn thing so the doctor could convince me that I didn't have the plague - just sinusitis. But that was several months ago, and for a while afterwards I'd still feel the effects of it when I was exercising. So I decided to project the way I was feeling onto Tony, because what I went through felt a little plague like at times. I didn't need to be put on oxygen but I did wake up at night coughing up phlegm. Sorry for leaving you guys with that image, but just explaining my muse. Some of this was written back when I was all sick and miserable in May, the rest was written after I rediscovered this recently along with _**A Different Type Of Fear**_. It was a good work in progress.

_**Summary: **_"He thought once he'd killed those pesky micro organisms, that was it. So long plague, hello life. He'd never thought of the after effects." One shot of Tony's feelings post-SWAK_**.**_

_**Disclaimer:**__ Don't own NCIS or Tony and I've never had the plague (but felt like I had!)._

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_**The After Effects**_

He sat up in his bed again. Sat… that wasn't the right word at all. Let's rephrase. Tony was laying down on the bed. He was trying to sleep.

Until another round of deep, chesty coughs made themselves known, and the spasm the coughs caused his lungs forced Tony to sit up in his bed. He looked around, panicked and momentarily disorientated.

He hated it. This. His own body betraying him. Why did it have to be him? He'd never felt so unbelievably pitiful in his entire life. He usually prided himself on his stamina; the athleticism that had never left him. He'd been a jock for most of his life. Old habits die hard.

But now what? Now he couldn't even say a full sentence without needing to take a break so he could hack up some of the damn gunk that was clogging his lungs. Now he needed a basin or a tissue or something near him at all times that he could use to get the gunk out of him.

He'd lost his appetite, he was so spent from all the hard work the coughing caused. And as a result of the lost appetite, there was lost weight.

He didn't recognise himself when he looked in the mirror anymore. His skin, normally a healthy tan glow, had only improved a little. He'd moved from an ashen grey in the first few days to a more wan colour - the doctors had seen it as an improvement. Tony didn't.

The cyanotic bluish tint in his nails, lips and underneath his eyes, thanks to a lack of oxygen, thanks to the pneumonic plague had disappeared not long before he'd been weaned slowly off the nasal canula. What hadn't disappeared were the dark bags under his eyes. He knew why that was - he wasn't getting any sleep due to all the hacking of gunk, in layman's terms.

And because he wasn't getting enough sleep, he was always tired. Since he wasn't eating a lot, he had no energy. And since he was tired and had no energy, he was bored.

Some people were, by nature, coach potatoes. Anthony DiNozzo Jr, was not one of these people. Sure, there were days when he would rather stretch out on the couch and watch his favourite episode of Magnum - there were just some episodes of TV shows that were meant to be watched over and over again - and there were days where all he wanted to do was go for a run through the nearest park, and ogle the women as they ran past in their shorts and tank tops. But the sick leave was really getting to him. He was sick of being confined to his apartment, staring at the four walls surrounding him.

He couldn't even do what he usually did to unwind, watch a movie. He just didn't have it in him to concentrate on the shapes dancing across the large television screen, and that worried him. Movies were his niche. He felt in his element doing three things - his job, playing a game of basketball and watching a good ol' flick. Especially a good thriller. But now that he couldn't even focus on who was shooting at who on the television, there was no chance he could focus on not shooting McGeek, Kate or the Boss by accident. Last thing he would want would be to mistakenly shoot one of them while aiming for some terrorist.

He thought once he'd killed those pesky micro organisms, that was it. So long plague, hello life. He'd never thought of the after effects. Of course there'd have been long lasting effects he'd considered. Dr. Pitt had sat him down for a rather long conversation on his new susceptibility to pulmonary infections. When Tony had asked for a translation into layman's terms, he discovered that his lungs were now scarred permanently after winning their battle with the plague. That meant being more careful. Tony could handle that.

What he couldn't handle, was the weakness he was feeling. He hated it. He would get to his feet and feel a slight sway travel through his body and need to catch a hold of something steady to keep him upright. He could see everyone's eyes immediately slide to him every time he coughed or sneezed. The concern at his new found weakness. How he hated it. Especially the look of guilt that flitted across McGee's face every time.

But admittedly he was weak, and had lost a great deal of his strength and stamina to this damn disease. A disease, that had long since destroyed itself because of the suicide chain he'd been told about. Tony acknowledged that it could be a long time before he was in peak physical condition again.

On that particular note, he was glad it had been him. Even though it hadn't been intentional, he was glad he'd snatched the letter off McGee. He had done the right thing for the wrong reasons, but it had spared the Probie _this. _Fifteen per cent, he'd later been told were his chances of pulling through. He'd been stuck in the dark ages, no miracles of modern medicine for Anthony DiNozzo Jr. He'd beaten those damn bugs the old fashioned way - by being the stubborn bastard he knew he could be. He had learned from the best.

But he'd beaten it. He'd done it. And know all he had to do was possibly the hardest part.

Recover. Accept other's help. That was the only way he'd ever be strong enough after his sick leave to get back to work. Tony hated appearing vulnerable, but when he was too tired and lacked the energy to do anything, that's why he was so relieved that he could rely on the others. They'd all been to see him since he'd relocated back home - Gibbs, Kate, McGee, Abby, Ducky and even the autopsy gremlin himself, Palmer. Most of them found themselves in the kitchen preparing something, and by the time they had brought the meal into Tony he'd be out cold on the couch. Tony knew he hadn't been the best company the last few weeks, but it wasn't as if he fell asleep on purpose. He usually did his best to warn them before they arrived that his impromptu naps tend to happen.

Tony wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or glad for everyone's sympathy. None of them minded that he fell asleep mid-conversation. It felt a little like they were handling him with kid gloves, and Tony didn't like that. He'd been injured on the job before, sure. In his line of work it came with the territory. But no injury had gauged as much of a response as this one had.

"_You managed to get the freakin' Black Death, DiNozzo." _Tony thought to himself, _"Of course they're going to treat you a little differently."_

Change was something that wasn't new to Tony. He'd bounced from precinct to precinct before arriving at NCIS. Since he'd been on the team, he'd worked with more than three different people alongside Gibbs - Viv, Kate and now McGee - not including Abby and Ducky. He'd had to get a new car since his old one had been totalled. He was even adjusting to the idea of these new pulmonary and respiratory infections.

Just so long as those pitiful looks would no longer be thrown in his direction.

That was the after effect that he really hated the most.

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Just like _**Putting Things Into Perspective **_I found ending the hardest. Well did you enjoy Tony's/my suffering? So glad I had an excuse for another SWAK-fic! Hurrah! A really tough one to title too.

Let me know what you guys thought!

Little Squirt.


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